Cimmerian Soldiers
by Just Subliminal
Summary: They each existed with no knowledge of the others in the world, but in the end, all of them belonged to the very same place. It was always a given that they would meet; the real question was when. And, more importantly... What would happen after that? AU
1. Little Plastic Men

I don't even know why I'm trying this... Meh. Oh well. Tell me what you think, ne? And just in case you _somehow_ missed this... It's a crossover.

* * *

**one**

* * *

On the fourth of June, the rain came down in buckets. The skies were black with lightning clouds, the air was heavy and cold, and winds with the force to knock over a full grown man raged sporadically throughout the entire day. The streets were almost completely empty as people took shelter in homes or storefronts, waiting for the next brief respite in the weather so that they might be able to run out, do what they needed, and get back inside unscathed.

It wasn't the best weather to celebrate one's birthday in, but Muto Yugi found that he didn't really mind. For all that he'd been soaked when he fought his way to school that morning, and soaked again on the trip back home, it was still one of the best days of his admittedly short life so far.

On his tenth birthday, Yugi had almost made a friend.

...Almost.

If the amethyst-eyed boy stopped to really consider it, he would realize how _pathetic_ that was. But then, that was exactly _why_ he wasn't stopping to think about it. Not for the first time, Yugi found himself latching onto a reason to be happy and holding it tightly to his chest so that he could enjoy it as much as possible before it faded.

_Maybe it will last a while this time,_ the boy mused to himself as he dried off and changed into warm clothes after finally making it back home. _If it really lasted..._ It would be so nice, for once, to have a reason to smile ready and waiting without even having to search for it. _I almost made a friend!_

He didn't really care that Senji had only played with him in school because of a dare, or that the boy's _real_ friends had made it abundantly clear at the end of the day that nothing similar would be happening again. All Yugi could think about was the fact that for the first time ever, somebody other than his grandfather had noticed that he existed and actually paid attention instead of turning away.

It didn't happen often. "...Okaasan and otousan didn't even do that, you know," he recounted softly as he climbed up to sit at his desk, where a box and an array of little gold shapes were strewn about in one corner, as they had been since he was six years old. "I think, maybe, okaasan used to. Sometimes. But otousan..." The little boy's smile became smaller as he fiddled with a piece of the puzzle that he was only halfway done with. "Otousan always said I wasn't a very good son... But that's okay! Because I was born too early, and I was always so sick when I was little. I could never play sports or talk much or do anything really, and I'm not super smart, and I look very pale and my hair is really weird, so I don't blame them for leaving me all alone," he told the puzzle in a soft voice.

His smile widened again as he fit one tiny gold piece against another with tiny, clumsy hands. "But Senji noticed me today! And we played during lunch and sat together in class and nobody made fun of me. It was just like having a real friend, I think, even if it was only for today. It's a nice birthday gift, ne? I think so..."

Yugi had _almost_ made a real friend today. And that meant that one day, just maybe, he could _really_ make a real friend, just like all the other children. It was a bit pathetic, but it was still a step in the right direction, right? "But it's okay," he chattered quietly to the puzzle as he turned it around in his hands, looking for a new spot to work on. "You're not really a person but I think you still make a good friend." He frowned at an oddly shaped piece in his hand. "But I'm still gonna wish to make more friends, okay?"

Another grin lit his face as he suddenly managed to fit the piece into the puzzle. "That makes four puzzle pieces this month, and two of them today! Maybe the rain makes it easier to put together? Hm..."

"Yugi! It's time for dinner!"

With a series of rapid blinks, Yugi glanced at his door, and then at the puzzle in his hands. "Oh... Hai, jiichan!" He set the puzzle back down in its' spot on his desk, and smiled at it. "Well, I guess that's all I'm going to do for today. Dinnertime now." _I should tell ojiichan about Senji! I bet I'm gonna get a real friend soon. I just have to!_ "Bye, puzzle..."

Just an ordinary day.

* * *

**two**

**

* * *

**

People from all walks of life regarded shadows in much the same way that they were cognizant of earth, fire, water, lightning, and air; naturally occurring, impossible to truly be without and absolutely fascinating on a level that no man-made phenomenon could ever hope to achieve. However, at the same time, there was a stigma attached to the shadows that didn't hold true for any of the physical elements, an intrinsic _fear_ that was created by the very nature of shades. Shadows were created by the light, but they held none of their own. They were the natural, visible proof that no matter what, there would always be _darkness_ in every corner of the world, no matter where one might travel. For many, this was a frightening prospect.

Harry... Well, he had never been one of 'many.' Even though the majority of his life had been spent locked in a cupboard, the five year old wasn't afraid of the dark. In fact, if he ever stopped to think about it, the emerald eyed boy would come to find that it was _because_ of his cupboard that he couldn't find it in himself to fear the Shadows. After all, how could someone fear the place they believed was 'home?' It made no sense.

To him, the shadows were his only friends.

Of course, his classmates didn't share that opinion. The green eyed boy had been so confused when he found out that everyone in the kindergarten class, including the woman who taught them during the day, admitted to having a fear of the dark. He wanted to ask them what was so scary about shadows and the dark that he just couldn't see, but after a few months of being in primary school, Harry had quickly found out that freaks like him simply didn't operate like everyone else.

It hadn't been fun to realize that he was just as different from the other children there as he was from the Dursleys.

"Boy! What did you say to your teacher to make her call us in? Didn't I tell you to keep your trap shut and be stupid while you're in that place? Is it so much to ask? Well? Goodness, you can't even do _that_ right..."

The small, messy-haired child kept his large eyes on the floor of the Dursley home's foyer, staying absolutely still as he listened to his aunt berate him. He didn't even move to keep the glasses he'd only just gotten from slipping down his nose. He thought about saying he was sorry for being strange, but by now, he knew that nothing would keep his relative from finishing her fit and sending him into the cupboard. Really, he didn't even mind the yelling, not any more. _Even though Lisa cried when her aunt was yelling at her..._ But then, he was a freak. He was different. Maybe only good children cried and said sorry when they were in trouble...?

Most of the time, Harry didn't really care what happened around him as long as he got to eat and sleep relatively uninterrupted. It was normal, to him, that Petunia and Vernon cared much more for Dudley than they even pretended to care for him, and that Dudley got all the toys and the better clothes and never got punished for anything, even when it was his fault. He didn't even mind that Dudley had friends to go to the park with and play with and share snacks with.

Sometimes though, like now, the boy couldn't help but wish he _could_ act _normal_ and _good_ for a little while, to see what it was like and maybe be treated just like his cousin was. If he could play with people and wear bright colors and talk without getting into any trouble for it, just for a little while... Even only once... Maybe then, he could be happy. He'd be a _good_ boy if it meant he could just see what it was like.

"...not even listening! Just as impertinent as that _mother_ of yours. Why couldn't you be a nice, good, _normal_ boy like my sweet little dudders? Hmph..."

Harry didn't really notice it when he was all but shoved back into his cupboard. He didn't stand tall enough to actually hit the broken light bulb that was somewhere on the ceiling, and the backpack that was almost larger than him cushioned his body when he tumbled onto the folded blankets that made up his cot.

He shifted until he was sitting on his bed properly, and finally fixed the large glasses that had been slipping off of his face. He looked blindly to his left, at a corner of the cupboard where he knew there was nothing but darkness, even when the light sometimes decided to work. "...I could be good," the five year old mumbled, both to the shadows that he imagined as his friends and to himself. "I _think_ I could be good. And normal. And nice..."

_Good, and normal, and nice,_ he repeated in his thoughts as he curled up on his blankets, resting his head on the large back-pack. _And... Smart. Good, and normal, and nice, and smart. And... Happy. And I could make friends if I want. Good, and normal, and really nice, and really smart, and happy, and I could make friends if I want. And... Um..._

With his eyes closed, Harry began the most focused imagination session of his life, thinking of what the perfect 'good' him would be like. Maybe he could just build the perfect 'him' and let _that_ Harry go to school and talk to the Dursleys, so that maybe, he could see what it was like to be normal.

_...And 'good' me still has to be not afraid of the shadows_, he added to his very long list, which had been building up for fifteen minutes at that point. _Even if it's not normal, the shadows are my friends, and 'good' me shouldn't leave them. So... Good, and almost-normal, and really nice, and..._

The empty, shadowed corner of his cupboard shifted a bit.

* * *

**three**

**

* * *

**

Ishizu loved Rishid a lot more than she would ever be able to care for him, and Malik wasn't sure that he'd ever be able to blame her for that, blood ties or not. If it were his choice, he would also choose Rishid over his own self. His brother was smart, kind, and unfailingly loyal, almost to the point of stupidity.

Rishid was also the only one that believed him when he said that all the bad things he did weren't his fault, not really.

The blonde Egyptian couldn't understand his brother's loyalty or tolerance. Things had reached a point where he was starting to believe that underneath everything, he really _wanted_ to be the horrible person that he was turning out to be. Maybe it only _felt_ like something else was controlling his mind and body during those times. Perhaps, the insane, angry voice that he only heard in his dreams and on the darkest nights was the one that he was meant to be using.

He scared himself.

"I don't _want_ to be bad," he mumbled into his arms. He pushed himself back, curling further into the corner of his closet where he'd taken to hiding every time he did something cruel and didn't feel like facing the world. "But maybe... Maybe I should stop fighting it...?"

All of a sudden, he flinched, and buried his face even deeper into his arms. In the back of his mind, he could hear the voice crowing and cooing and crooning, _agreeing_, that he should just give in and enjoy the dark and let the shadows take care because they would always take care and _you just have to give in, give in, give in and destroy it all...!_

The shadows were coming to life around him now, and no matter how small a ball he curled into, they were always just inches away, caressing, wanting to swallow him whole. He knew now, from experience, that the Millennium Rod was shining on his belt, even though he wasn't attempting to use it all. The light was golden but perverted, because what kind of light was _eaten_ by the shadows instead of driving them away?

"I wish I could be on the outside," he spoke to himself, lavender eyes clenched shut tightly as he tried to ignore the strange world his closet was becoming. "I could have gone to that Academy. I could learn how to control this kind of thing. I could find someone to fix what's wrong with me. I could track down that bastard who murdered my father. I could..." He paused, and even that shadows seemed to fade away as he thought.

_If I'll be bad anyways... Why can't I just _leave_?_

But the thought excited the voice again, and he had the worst headache he'd ever gotten as the voice got louder and crazier and even more frightening. Still, the thought stuck with him. He couldn't be good no matter what, so what would it hurt to leave and see the outside world as he so desperately wished to?

* * *

**four**

**

* * *

**

He hadn't been allowed to go to the funeral for Amane and his mother, but that was okay, because he knew what was really going on. He always had. There had never been a car crash, and the funeral was just a farce with empty caskets and oblivious people to confirm that it had really happened should anyone ask for some reason. Or rather, should _he_ ask for some reason.

But Ryou was never going to ask, because he'd known the truth long before everything happened. He knew that _he_ was the reason his mother and sister were gone. They were gone because there was something wrong with him, something powerful that was simply impossible to stop or get rid of. Something dangerous that his fragile mother and sweet, gentle sister would always be threatened by if they tried to stay. Something that would inevitably find them if it knew they were alive... Just like it did last time.

The white haired boy looked down, to the golden artifact that sat in both of his hands. All of the ends hanging from the ring pointed in one direction, and in his mind, he could hear that voice: _/You know I know where sweet mother and darling sister are hiding. Come, let's go to them. It's the longest game of hide and seek you've ever played. But they don't hide so well, do they, yadonushi...?/_

His brown eyes drifted over to the dresser across the room, where a framed picture sat in the shade of an unlit desk lamp. That was the last picture that he'd ever taken with his sister, the twin that was barely seven minutes younger than he was. Three years was a long time, but the ten year old could still remember clearly his sister's high pitched laughter, the braid she kept her light brown hair in, her eyes that were bright and hazel compared to his own dull chocolate orbs...

And then his eyes moved from the picture frame to the eight well-kept dolls that also rested on the dresser, each with unnaturally alive-looking eyes and frightened or shocked expressions on their faces. "No," he whispered quietly, "I think I'll just keep you and these shadows all to myself..."

The voice knew where they were... But so did Ryou. How could he not? Amane was his _twin_. Her life was the only thing he saw in his dreams, when he wasn't occupied with the nightmares from the malicious spirit in the Ring. And besides... _Mother and Amane wouldn't want me. There's no reason to go looking for them if they'll just leave me again._

Nobody wanted him. Not his mother who was scared of him, or his sister who didn't even think about him, or his friends who wouldn't be dolls if it weren't for his childish love of games. Not even his father, who had stayed behind for some reason all those years ago to take care of him, had any desire to remain nearby more than a few days out of a year.

Deep voiced chuckling rang out in his head, and Ryou curled in on himself, closing his eyes so he wouldn't have to see the apparition that he could _sense_ was appearing in front of him. _/Are you feeling lonely again, yadonushi?/ _The voice mocked._ /Am I not _enough_ for you? Are you unsatisfied with my _rent_? I don't see why... Now, your friends can play _whenever you want_.../_

"I don't _want_ to play with them as dolls! I want living, human friends! I don't want you to pay this _rent_!" Ryou exclaimed with a scowl, only to cut himself off abruptly, paling. The white haired boy only clenched his arms tighter around his legs when he felt ghost-solid hands gripping his shoulders painfully. "Please just go away, Bakura. Just... At least until tomorrow... Please?"

There was more mocking laughter, until finally, the room was dark and empty yet again. That didn't change the presence that would forever remain in the back of his head, but it was good enough. Ryou trembled a bit; as soon as he noticed it, however, he forced his body to still. The spirit was being relatively nice today, but the smallest signs of weakness from him had the ability to set off a hair-trigger temper that he had no desire to deal with anytime soon.

Slowly, Ryou slid off his bed, and took the few steps necessary to reach the desk in his dorm room. The envelope, pen and paper was already laid out and waiting, as always.

_"Dear Amane..."_

Even if his sister didn't want him, he could still remember the days when she was the only one he confided in. The letters were probably the closest he'd ever get to a confidant like her again.

_"Today, I managed to make that boy with the blonde hair leave me alone. It hurt to say those things, but at least he'll never become a doll. Not like the rest of them..."_

* * *

A/N:** Dear strange people who have me on author alert and decided to read this**: no, I'm not abandoning **Second Bloom** by doing this. It's just the result of an inspiration in between classes and a cute picture.


	2. Point of View

A/N: Pretend we're operating on the Harry Potter timeline, but everything is ten years ahead. Or something like that. Anything that justifies cellphones.

* * *

**one**

* * *

The tingling sound of a small bell's movement rang out as the door to the shop opened. It was the earliest he'd gotten a customer in ages, and Sugoroku found himself curious as to whom it was he would be serving this time. However, when his eyes finally caught onto the familiar figure nearing the counter, and he recognized the voice calling out a greeting, the sentiment died out completely. This was one confrontation he didn't truly want.

"Ohayo, otousan." His daughter's focused, gray eyed gaze met his own violet orbs with some strange, unidentifiable emotion hidden within their depths. The crimson hair that she'd inherited from her mother had never made her expression seem so ominous before. "It's been a while, hasn't it?"

_Oh, only five and a half years since you came here with your son and then left him without so much as a goodbye or explanation, let alone a way to contact you._ But Sugoroku didn't let his thoughts control his actions. Instead, he gave a very slight nod, and remained silent as he watched his only child stop in front of the counter and absently run a hand over the glass. _This encounter will be causing pain, won't it?_

Kari had always reminded him of a predator, even when she was just a little girl playing with the other children in school. She was very careful in choosing targets, and then making plans to get what she wanted from them as efficiently as possible. She wasn't _mean_, per se, but her interests had always involved getting what she wanted and taking care of her own self before any others. Predictably, when she met the calculative Satsu Hiroshi, they were matched and married within a year.

He still wasn't sure how they'd gotten a child like Yugi. And Sugoroku was still convinced that it was Yugi's nature, which so opposed theirs, that made them give him up so long ago.

As it would later turn out, he was perfectly correct. But it wasn't at all in the way he'd believed.

* * *

After more idle pleasantries and meaningless comments, Sugoroku had given up and asked Kari to wait for him in the living room while he closed up the shop for the day; he was fairly sure that he would be in no state to continue operating the counter whenever their talk was finished. Out of sheer politeness, he prepared a tray of tea to set on the table between them, and finally sat down for the talk he was dreading.

"I know how you hate to beat around the bush on important matters, Kari, so I will start this off," Sugoroku began in the calmest tone that he could muster. "I would like for you to explain how and why it came to be that you abandoned Yugi-kun five, almost six years ago." He'd worded it carefully on purpose; he had lots of experience in getting his daughter to talk.

Kari got an odd expression on her face, but replied nonetheless, trying not to remember the times when she had been 'Kari-chan' to her father. "Well, it seems that we are together in our wishes for once, otousan. That ties in directly to my reason for coming here today."

"Hm. A nice coincidence. Please, continue."

"Of course. There is a lot of background knowledge that I will need to tell you, in order to explain my reasons and what happened that day five years ago..."

"Yugi-kun's sixth birthday, yes," Sugoroku interrupted. Her gray stare on him hardened, briefly, but he merely looked back, violet orbs placid.

Continuing, Kari spoke, "The first thing you must know is that he was born early not for any medical reason, but because his core developed faster than his body and when it fluctuated the first time, he couldn't remain any longer. Accordingly, if it weren't for his core, he would've died within hours of his birth. It is also due to his core that as he grew up, he continued to survive. It was always apparent that he was born with a large destiny..." Her voice had an odd tone to it as she trailed off.

"And?" The older one prodded, shifting his position on the couch. Somehow, he already knew that he wouldn't like what he was going to hear.

Now, her eyes moved from his to a corner of the dark wood on the coffee table. "Although you advised against it when the topic was brought up, Hiroshi and I decided it was best to have his abilities scryed out before they truly began to develop. It wouldn't have been complete, due to his young age, but it would give us some idea." It was here that her face hardened, and Sugoroku suddenly noticed that she hadn't referred to her son by name once. "We performed the scrying ourselves. Luckily."

"Luckily...?"

Kari looked back into his eyes, her face a mask of cold porcelain. "It was always evident that he would be light natured, and his shifter talents had already shown up when his hair began to turn colors. There was potential within him for scrying, empathy, divination, sage craft, healing... And so much more. Only, it was more than I had ever wanted for him. Far more. Because in the end, his top potential came as a mage. A _shadow_ mage."

Against his own will, Sugoroku found himself slumping back on the couch, eyes wide. _A shadow mage?_ _Little Yugi-kun?_ It was hard to believe. The small, optimistic, game loving boy that he'd been raising for the last five years had the potential for some of the most destructive powers in the world locked somewhere inside of him. Born mages of any kind were rare, but shadow mages only appeared once every few centuries, if then. Of course, most people would take an army of Dark Lords over a shadow mage any day.

Quite suddenly, he found himself relieved that Yugi had been abandoned rather than put to any worse fate. He knew that Hiroshi, if not his daughter, had the mindset that would allow them to do it. At the same time, however... _He is your son, Kari, and you talk about him as if he were some sort of creature! His abilities do not make him any less your blood!_ But he kept those thoughts to himself.

Instead, he asked this: "Why have you returned now?"

"It's been eleven years since the April that marked his entrance into the world, otousan. And I know that you've been intending to send him off to some school, just as you did when I came of age for it. I am here to let you know that you _cannot_ allow him to be trained, and preferably, you won't even let him know about that part of his heritage until it's too late for his abilities to ever develop. I am here to receive your binding oath that you will not send him to any school to learn magic." Her face grew harder still, if possible. "If I don't receive your oath, I will bind his magic just like they used to bind slaves. Hiroshi would prefer death, but fortunately, some part of me still cares for the boy I birthed. Make your choice."

There wasn't really a choice at all. "I will swear." And he would. After all, Sugoroku had spent years dealing with his daughter's word play, and she left a large hole this time. He wouldn't send Yugi to any school, but even after so many years, he knew that he wouldn't make a bad teacher himself.

Kari smiled at him for the first time in an hour when the oath was done. "Thank you for making the right choice, otousan. If things go well, this is the last time the issue will bother you again." Left unspoken was that it was probably the last time he would see _his daughter _again as well.

It hurt less to see her leave than it did to know he wasn't bothered by her departure.

Sighing, Sugoroku retired to the kitchen so that he could think over some coffee. _I was so hopeful that you would begin making friends among your true peers this year, Yugi-kun. Of course, you still might... But only time will tell, it seems._ In any case, he had more pressing matters to consider.

_Should I begin his learning with the little magicks or with charms?_

* * *

**two**

* * *

The bedroom was small and impersonal. The walls and ceiling were white; not the pristine kind of white found in a chunk of marble, but rather the color of eggshells, a kind of off-white; they were used-to-be-blinding, faded-over-the-years white. The closet doors were a bit darker than the walls, but not by much. The bedsheets and curtains were the same, drab kind of speckled light-brown color that one expected to find in the stalls of public bathrooms, where the tiling was the cheapest available. A decaying wooden dresser was the most colorful thing in the room, next to the dusty wooden floors.

He was changing that.

With gentle, almost tender motions, he ran his hand along the edge of the dresser and left behind a thick, wavering line of crimson. He was careful to trace the entire top of the dresser, from edge to edge, and then he did the same from the top of the dresser to the floor. He gripped each handle for a few moments, brightening the metal knockers.

When he was done with the dresser, the brown eyed boy had to creep carefully from one side of the room to the other, because he was leaving a trail of carmine droplets in his wake and it amused him to leave patterns. After some contemplation, he slapped a hand as high on each closet door as he could reach, and dragged a coppery trail from that point to the very bottom. When he was done, he stepped back to admire his work, and took a perverse amount of pleasure in running his hands through the formerly pristine white hair atop his own head, leaving streaks of pink-ish color behind.

He had to squeeze at his arm before he could start on the walls. Here, he had the most fun; he wrote symbols, everywhere, from right to left and top to bottom. Hieroglyphs and common Arabic script in turn made the room prettier under his careful hands. He climbed onto the dresser to reach higher than he'd been able to before, and then left crimson footprints behind when he finally got down to observe his work.

He left the bed clean and untouched.

The sun was rising when he finally stepped out of the room and closed the door. The lock _clicked_ into place automatically, and his smiled before turning and padding softly to the bathroom. The blood on his feet had dried long ago, and so no footprints were left behind for him to clean up.

It was a bit of a struggle for him to climb up onto the sink in the bathroom; regrettably, it would be years before he could be called anything other than tiny. When he reached his goal, however, he smiled wide and malicious at his reflection in the bathroom mirror.

Strangely enough, his reflection was asleep.

_Should I awaken my yadonushi? Or shall I leave him to his sleep? Choices, choices..._ And yet, in the back of his mind, Bakura already knew that he wasn't going to wake up the child whose body he inhabited. For some reason, he was actually fond of the weak little brat. "This present is only for your father, it seems," he told the sleeping image in the mirror before climbing down once more.

His grin became more of a smirk as he deftly operated the knobs in the shower before stripping down to wash. The month before, Dr. Ian Bakura had given his word to Ryou that he would return early from his trip, on September 5th, in order to celebrate his son's birthday three days late. Ryou had been practically bouncing on his toes at the prospect of seeing his father and not being left alone for a few days.

Bakura had remained shrouded in the shadows, watching as that date predictably came and passed with not even a phone call. He'd given up on convincing his host that his father was a completely worthless being quite some time ago, but that didn't mean he grew any more at ease with having to keep Ryou's body up and functioning every single time his hopes were crushed and he fell into a depression. _Yadonushi... One day, you'll stop pretending that he loves you, _he thought.

Of course, that time was still far away. But the Spirit of the Ring had dealt with his host for four years now, and after nearly three millenia of moving from one soul to another, it didn't seem like much of a wait at all.

After scrubbing himself clean, drying, and dressing, Bakura decided it was finally time to awaken his host and let him start the day. _/Wakey wakey, yadonushi./ _He could feel the other soul stirring instantly at his mental nudge._ /You're all scrubbed and clean and ready to eat breakfast. We have things to do today, so a fresh start is important, ne?/_ And then, he relinquished control. He didn't bother mentioning the 'present' he left for the boy's father; the door was locked, and unlike him, Ryou was a _good_ boy. He wouldn't try and open the door to his father's room. _/Eat well.../_

When Ryou woke up, he was standing in the middle of his bedroom. He blinked blearily and looked around, but he couldn't find any strange items that appeared out of nowhere and he didn't smell any hint of blood. He glanced down; the gash he'd somehow gotten a week ago felt like it was fresh all over again. That explained why the bandages were new and tight, but that didn't tell him what his _other_ had done while he was sleeping.

Biting his lip as he walked towards the apartment's small kitchen, he chanced a question aloud: "Bakura...? What happened last night...?" Ryou wasn't sure he really wanted to know, but he'd discovered a long time ago that ignorance wasn't actually bliss... Not that the Ring's spirit told him much of anything even when he did ask.

_/None of your business. Eat. We have things to do today and I can't afford your fatigue./_

Ryou sighed. It was one of _those_ days again. "Of course." At least the spirit had chosen a Saturday instead of a school day to run his 'errands.' He had enough absences as it was. "...Hm?" As he walked past the tiny kitchen table, Ryou couldn't help but notice three thick envelopes that hadn't been there before. _I wonder where these came from?_

Choosing one at random, he opened it, not bothering to check the front. He was the only person that ever received mail at this address, after all. Several small packets of paper, along with two letters, fell out. He picked up the first one.

_Dear Mr. Bakura,_

_We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at the Sorcerer's Academy of Alexandria. Please find_

_enclosed a list of all necessary supplies and equipment. In recognition of your status as a child from a primarily_

_non-magical background, a representative will appear to explain more details to you within the next two days._

_Term begins no later than January 1st of the upcoming year. We await your decision no later than October 31st._

_Sincerely,_

_Shrouk al-Fillistini_

_Headmistress_

_Sorcerer's Academy of Alexandria_

Ryou stared at the paper with a blank look on his face. "...What in the world?"

Appearing to the side of the boy as an older apparition, Bakura smirked and eyed the other two envelopes. He'd wondered when these were finally going to show up. _The world just became ten times more interesting for me._ "As I've been saying, yadonushi, you need to eat. There are some tasks I need to accomplish before this representative appears."

Spinning around to face the spirit directly, something he rarely did, Ryou stared with wide eyes. "You mean this is real?"

"Heh, of course. This and so much more..."

* * *

Ryou had been instructed over a year ago that the only reason that he was ever to call his father was for emergencies. He'd been given a cell phone number, as the only reliable way to get in contact with his father when he moved around so often for his work, and a promise that his father would still call every evening to check on him. Of course, his father had only kept up that pattern for a month or so before deciding that Ryou, nine years old at the time, could obviously take care of himself.

Now, it was rare to receive calls from his father, and he had never been brave enough to go against the rules that Ian Bakura had set down about calling. More so, nothing had ever come up that he couldn't handle either on his own or through several compromises with the spirit of the item he always carried, so he had never called for an 'emergency' before.

But this time... Well, strange people literally _popping_ into the middle of the living room to recruit him for a world wide magic using cult counted as an emergency, right? If nothing else, he should probably tell his father if he intended to use the funds he was allowed to go to some strange magic school instead of a boarding school that could actually be found on the internet or by phone.

Although he thought he would probably regret it later on, Ryou ignored Bakura, who was glowering at him from the nearby wall. The spirit had been pushing for Ryou to simply choose a school, pack everything, and leave without informing his father of anything. Truthfully, the white haired boy had given serious thought to that course of action; his father didn't really want him, and he had access to enough money that he would be able to get by on his own. It would be _easier_ to just disappear...

_But what if I leave, and that's the day he comes? What if he doesn't want me to learn magic? What if he wants me to take the invitation to Eton...?_ His doubts made him decide to call.

The phone rang three times before it was picked up. It was when he heard the voice on the other end of the line that he began to suspect that something was wrong. _"Hello, who are you and why are you calling my daddy at nine-thirty in the evening? That's not polite, you know."_

In the three second pause during which Ryou froze, gave the phone a strange look, and tried to figure out if he'd dialed the wrong number, several thoughts passed through his mind: _My father is someone else's daddy?_ And, _Amane? No. Too young. And speaking English...?_ And finally, _nine-thirty in the evening? But father is in Cairo, isn't he?_

To his left, Bakura had a raised brow as he stared at the phone. Ryou tried to ignore him and push his own thoughts to the side at the same time; it wasn't really working. Somehow, though, he managed to answer in English: "Ah... I'm very sorry, but who am I speaking to? I'm looking for Dr. Ian Bakura..."

_"That's my daddy's name!"_ The little girl on the other end of the line exclaimed excitedly. _"But daddy said that I could play with his phone while he and Mother and Father have one of their 'private' talks upstairs. My name is Hermione by the way. Daddy's here because today's my birthday and I just turned seven! Who are you?"_

Now, both the spirit's brows had disappeared into his hairline, and Ryou found himself trying not to shiver as the apparition's ghost-solid body came in contact with his own. _Her... Daddy?_ Once again, it took quite a bit of effort to actually force an answer out of himself. "You can call me... Ryou. I'm sorry, but you said that... Dr. Bakura is your father?" _Please say no._

Hermione did just as he hoped, but it was almost worse than if she had said yes. "_No, that's not how it goes! Daddy is my daddy because I look like him. But he's not married to mother, so he's not father. And father is father because father is mother's husband. I'm Hermione Granger, not Hermione Bakura! Get it, Mr. Ryou?"_

He didn't get it, and he didn't think he wanted to, but somehow he knew it was going to make sense later, and more than that, it was going to hurt. "I understand completely," Ryou lied, grateful for the presence of the apparition next to him for probably the first time ever; Bakura was the only thing keeping him upright. "Well. It was nice talking to you Hermione, but I think I'll call at a better time for..." He had to stop himself from saying 'father.' "...Dr. Bakura."

And then he hung up the phone.

It didn't take him long to realize that while he was living at home all by himself and too afraid to make any friends in school, it wasn't only his mother and Amane who had a new family. Somewhere out there, he had _another_ little sister, another child that his father was staying with and taking care of and ignoring his son's emergency calls for. While Ryou was sitting at home, writing letters that he'd never send, trying to make himself normal and wishing that he had his family back, that same family was slowly forgetting that he'd ever existed.

While he was staying up late every day, waiting to see his father and celebrate his birthday weeks late, that very same man was off in Britain or England or America having a party for some sibling he'd never see and probably forgetting that he'd made a promise in the first place.

After an hour of sitting on the floor, playing with the cellphone he didn't think he'd ever use again, Ryou finally spoke up. "Ne... Bakura. You've been to America, right?"

The apparition startled at the sudden break in the silence of the bedroom, then pretended that he never had. Confused, he replied, "Yeah. Why?" He tried not to recoil when Ryou lifted his face to give him a tearful, watery smile. It was the first smile he'd ever received from his host.

"The lady from the American school seemed nice. And I liked the brochure." Ryou pretended that he hadn't hiccuped in the middle of that sentence. "I think... I think it would be nice to go there, ne? To... Learn magic," he ended in a whisper, before curling up and hiding his face in his knees as he cried.

Feeling uncomfortable, Bakura wondered if there was some sort of protocol he should follow in this situation. Was he supposed to comfort the boy or something? Because he didn't know how to give comfort. And really, he was glad that the boy was finally giving up on his asshole father once and for all. Ryou's decision to finally accept one of the schools was just a perk.

In the end, Bakura decided that the best thing to do in the situation was to pretend it wasn't happening. _I'm not dealing with this shit._ "Well, hurry up and start writing a letter so you can say we're going. Then we'll pack up and go explore this Wicca District place. Maybe they have Duel Monster cards there. I've been meaning to change up the deck anyways, it's getting boring. And..." He didn't notice that he kept up his talking, or that the shaking bundle of eleven-year-old next to him was slowly calming down.

When Ryou was finally calm, he wanted to thank his spirit for the first time ever. But he decided that words didn't mean much of anything, in the end. _I think... I think I'll just listen to Bakura more often from now on. He'll appreciate that. And besides..._

_I know that he, at least, will never leave me._

* * *

**three**

* * *

"Malik, no! Please stop! I will call Rishid for you, just control yourself, please!" The tears of frustration covering Ishizu's face only fell more rapidly when the loud crashes increased in speed and she found herself pressing further into the corner that seemed to be the only safe place she could find. The dark skinned young woman covered her head with her hands when a lamp crashed only feet away from her, and curled up tighter. "Please, Malik, won't you stop?"

The twelve year old standing in the center of the living room barely glanced at her as the destruction continued. _Can't she tell that o-shujinkaku-sama isn't here right now?_ It was Marik, not Malik, that was lashing out at the moment. _Maybe it's because she cut our hair so short. We look the same now._ And that made him angry, but only angry enough to crash the desk into the wall once.

Standing eerily still in the very center of the living room, Marik was completely out of place in the mess of flying, whirling furniture and papers that filled the air around them. He was the stationery eye of a raging tornado; but contrary to whatever his primary personality's sister believed, he wasn't very angry at all... For once. He was just bored. _I want to leave._ There wasn't much to destroy when you lived in isolation, after all. _O-shujinkaku-sama said we would leave. Why are we still here? I want to go, go, go..._ He began humming, and a malicious smile covered his face as his gaze zeroed in on Ishizu's corner of the room. _I think you are why we're still here. You won't let us go._

But Malik didn't hate Ishizu, not like he should, and he wouldn't keep letting Marik out to play if he thought that she might get hurt. Marik wanted to play more than he wanted to rip the girl to pieces. _She's always talking, talking, talking, and never lets us just burn it all _down_. Why does o-shujinkaku-sama even listen to her? She can't control him, me, us, we can't be controlled by her, so can't we just leave?_

And now, all of a sudden, he was angry. "When are we going to leave? I want to leave!" He yelled. With his yell, all the furniture in the room paused in midair, creating an eerie silence. "Why can't you just let us _go_...? You want so badly to keep us, to keep him, or me, locked inside... But you can't control me and I want to _leave this place!_"

With more force than any before, the objects in the air resumed their hurricane-like movements, pulling into a ball made of splinters and pieces and chunks of wood. Ishizu gave a high-pitched scream of terror when it all came flying at her, leaving her with nowhere to dodge and nothing but pain in her future.

The ball of objects stopped mere centimeters from her wide, terror filled eyes. The sharp end of a broken chair leg pressed against her ribcage, and if she was able to breathe through her fear and shock at the moment, the slightest attempt inhale would leave her impaled like some creature of the night.

Slowly and shakily, the ball of objects retreated and separated, falling gently into places on the floor. When the air was finally clear, Ishizu could see her brother sitting there; not the insane personality, but her _brother_, Malik, wide-eyed and just as terror stricken as she seemed to be from where he slumped on the floor.

She didn't chase after him when he got up and ran to his room, sobbing.

This was the last time she would ever send Rishid away without Malik.

* * *

**four**

* * *

"Boy! Have you finished washing those dishes yet?"

Blinking, Harry looked to the entrance of the kitchen, where his aunt's tall frame was in the doorway. Then he looked at the sink in front of him. He'd been standing on the stool near the kitchen counter for almost half an hour, now, but he'd never even attempted to turn on the water. He'd been focused on some strange, dark figure that he could only see when he looked out of the window through the corner of his eye. If he stared dead on, it would disappear.

Really, he wouldn't have done the dishes even if there _wasn't_ something more interesting outside.

He looked back at his impatient aunt. "No," the green eyed boy spoke quietly. He didn't try and fight when she marched over and grabbed him by the upper arm, yelling about how ungrateful and lazy he was. Instead, he went back to not-staring at the dark figure across the street. It always seemed to sit under that broken lamp post...

"...again! Not listening! Oh, when Vernon gets home, I'll just have him straighten you out, you need it...!"

It was at that point that Harry tuned in to his aunt's words again. Acting almost as if a switch had flipped inside of him, the six year old disentangled himself from her grasp and turned on the faucet, focusing on the dishes in front of him as he added dish washing liquid to the water. "Please forgive me, Mrs. Dursley. I'm very sorry for my rude behavior; I was distracted. I will finish the dishes as soon as possible so that I can go water the garden to your satisfaction."

As the child continued washing the dishes with an almost robotic efficiency, Petunia stared at him, her expression curiously disturbed. Very slowly, the blonde woman took a large step back, and then continued to look at the child, trying to convince herself that his eyes weren't suddenly more hazel than emerald behind the large glasses he wore.

It wasn't the first time she'd seen the sudden transition between the quiet, easily distracted little boy who paid no attention to rules and the polite, efficient child that kept a straight posture and used the vocabulary of someone thrice his age. In the past year, the strange 'other' version of her nephew had been showing up more and more, and she'd be a fool not to realize that it only happened when she mentioned getting her husband to straighten him out.

Not for the first time, Petunia wondered exactly what Vernon _did_ when he was straightening her nephew out. Her darling little Dudley was always perfectly behaved, and so neither parent had ever felt the need to really discipline him. But if Dudley did need discipline, would he suddenly start to act strange if she left Vernon to it as well?

_No,_ Petunia told herself, ripping her eyes from the boy and exiting the kitchen with a stride that was more hurried than strictly necessary. _There's nothing wrong with the way my husband disciplines that boy! He's just doing such a good job that the threat of it make him straighten up all on his own!_

And her nephew didn't have a split personality that only showed up because of Vernon.

And there really wasn't anything wrong with the way she treated him. Really.

Nothing at all.

* * *

A/N: Whoa. I actually feel bad for writing Ryou like that. Huh.


	3. The Hanged Man

You know, I'm writing this stuff with Wow Wow Wubzy and Ni Hao Kai-Lan playing in the background... These little kids are messing up my 'groove.'

Also. The dates are messed up from whatever you may be expecting. This is done on purpose. You no bug me about it, kay?

* * *

**one**

* * *

Rishid still remembered the day that Malik was born. December 23rd, 1984 was just the same as every other day that he'd spent living with the Ishtar family; dark, damp and painfully silent because it all took place in the maze hidden beneath a series of tombs. Although his adoptive mother was giving birth, it wasn't as exciting as it should've been. He still spent almost the entire day reading dusty scrolls and entertaining the five year old bundle of curiosity that was Ishizu.

At age ten, he wasn't exactly a 'wise older brother' yet, but he was still absolutely delighted to finally be called in to see his new sibling. And even the revelation that his adoptive mother had born a little boy, who would be the heir Rishid couldn't be, didn't take away his excitement. A special sort of warmth for the baby had settled in his chest before he even got the chance to hold him, because he was told that the child was named 'Malik.' Only his mother knew that _he_ had suggested that name for a boy.

He had no problem promising that he would watch over Malik when his mother asked. After all, why wouldn't he?

It was hard to keep that frame of mind when, only hours later, she died.

To this very day, he wondered how much his life might have changed if he didn't make that promise. Without his adoptive mother's presence, the only thing keeping him from leaving was that promise, and consequently, Malik. His adoptive father looked at him as more of a servant than anything, and Ishizu's big blue eyes could only plead so much. Malik's lilac orbs and blonde hair that he had inherited from his mother had a much stronger pull, but not enough that he would take the beatings he did and follow some of the orders he was given without the promise backing them up.

Initially, he'd at least had the comfort of his younger siblings being sweet children, no matter how unloved he was by his father. But it wasn't long before Ishizu began to treat him the way she saw her father treat him; as a servant. It had nothing to do with dislike for him and everything to do with following the example put down by her father. She was still kind, but the days when she called him to play with her and looked up to him were over. He was there to _assist_, not to _love_.

He'd assumed that it would be the same with Malik as he grew up. Rishid was ashamed to admit that he'd harbored resentment for the innocent child, especially when he found out that the boy truly did see him as a brother, regardless of blood ties. Finding that out had made remaining with the Ishtars much easier, especially when he could appreciate that the bond he had with Malik was one that nobody else could lay claim to.

Now, it was the bond he shared with Malik, far more than that promise he made fifteen years ago, that kept him with the Ishtars. He cared for Malik far more than many others in the world, and it was that caring that allowed him to remain close to the boy even as he warped and changed with each passing day. He'd done the best he could to seal away the dangerous alter-ego hidden within his brother's soul, but he could still see its' hateful influence seeping into the once-innocent boy.

It hurt to know that he couldn't even leave for more than a few hours at a time without Malik losing a little bit more of himself to the personality inside of him. Even though the man was dead, Rishid resented his adoptive father. If not for that man, Malik could've seen and been satisfied with the world outside long before now. He could've had someone to train his ever-growing magical abilities properly, instead of leaving disaster after disaster of uncontrolled power to wreak havoc everywhere Malik went. Malik could still be an innocent boy with no experiences of malice to stain his soul.

But all of that 'could be' never 'would be.' He was resigned to spending the rest of his life trying to protect the world from his younger sibling, and his sibling from his own self.

It was a bleak thought.

* * *

_I wonder if he's thinking about me again,_ Malik thought, watching his brother stare out the window of the taxi with a listless expression. _I wish I didn't make him so sad all the time..._ The thought left him feeling regretful, but as a bright light went past his vision, he found himself distracted from any sort of emotion besides wonder. He hated to feel so _up_ when his brother was so _down_, but...

_Outside. Finally outside. And it's amazing..._ The world beyond the tombs, beyond the desert, and far beyond Cairo was one of sights that he could never have dreamed up, not even with the help of a million magazines and a library full of modern tomes. Everything was different. People were paler or darker or frighteningly tall, there were hair colors he could never imagine anyone being born with, and the clothes were made of materials he'd never even seen before in his life.

He'd only been out for a week, at that point, but he was never going to get tired of the vastness of the sky and all the different colors it could switch between over the course of a single hour. He'd heard of grass and pavement and mud, but walking on them was something entirely different. The very air was new to him in every place he went. The heat of the sun was startling, as was the speed at which it could cool and allow dew to form on his skin and clothing.

Every shop called for him to go into it. He'd tried so many different flavors in the past five days that he didn't even have a favorite anymore, because everything was so amazing. He didn't know how he'd survived without ice cream. The tattoo parlor gave him nightmares; why would anyone do that to themselves _willingly_? At the same time, however, he was determined to get his ears pierced at some point, like Ishizu had. Or maybe his belly button. Or his tongue... Then again, why would anyone want to poke a hole into their tongue? Besides how cool it looked, at least.

_But before I can do anything of the sort..._ He would go into various museums with his brother, to handle the business that his sister was too harried to take care of on her own. And then, when Rishid was done with what he needed to do, he would begin what he'd been silently planning for what seemed like years, ever since he'd heard of their existence: _I will capture all of the Egyptian God Cards, and I will master them._ When he had all of that power under his control, he would be able to call _himself_ Pharaoh. And when that time came, he would free his family and himself. No child would ever have to go through what he had, and nobody else would be forced to spend their lives in isolation for the sake of protecting a series of decrepit tombs and long-rotted bodies.

And he would be fixed, finally. That _voice_ would never bother him or scare his siblings again.

_This is the beginning of the end._

* * *

**two**_  
_

* * *

"To describe my closest relationship, it would be... The Hanged Man." Ryou spoke the words even before he drew the card, which was exactly what he'd known it would be. His closest relationship was the one he shared with Bakura, the Thief living within his soul. It wasn't the happiest, or the best, or even one that he truly wanted... But it was the strongest. He suspected that would always be the case, no matter where life took him.

The white-haired boy managed a genial smile towards his Divination teacher even as she eyed him warily, not moving to touch the card as she had with the other students'. He wasn't sure if it was because he used the Deviant Moon tarot deck, which was generally terrifying to look at, or because of the card he'd drawn. _The Hanged Man..._ Or perhaps she was suspiscious because he'd known what card it would be before it was even drawn. They were all possibilities.

After a tense minute, Madame Descarte nodded sharply to him, her eyes finally leaving his face. "You are exempt from the homework assignment, Mr. Bakura. I believe you have read quite far into yourself already, there's no need for you to write it down for the world to see." And then, with quick, measured steps, she moved on to the other side of the classroom.

_/I bet she's just too scared to hear about why that's our card./_ Bakura spoke up, appearing next to him as an apparition that only he could see. The older looking spirit grinned maliciously. _/You should offer to give her a reading. Before the end of the year. After all, she'll never see you again, and nobody is quite so accurate in predicting tragedies as you are, yadonushi.../_ The thought of the stiff woman breaking down before them, as so many had before, was amusing to him.

Ryou sighed quietly and began to shuffle his deck again, his eyes focused on the cards. He gave no indication that anything around him had changed, except the near-invisible movement of his lips as he replied, "No, I don't think I will... Some things are better left unsaid." Again, he sighed. "I would like to leave here with no legacies left behind, preferably."

_/Che. You're too nice./_ And with that, Bakura disappeared again.

He knew that the thief was bored; if he was willing to, Ryou could admit that he shared the sentiments. As he'd found out nearly three years ago, Bakura already knew more magic than any of the teachers were inclined to show him before he was seventeen. Although his other had never been formally schooled, the spirit had been housed within many magicians as years passed, and was practically a fortress of knowledge when he chose to actually share it. With the spirit at his side constantly, correcting him and pushing him into picking things up faster and faster, it was less surprising than it could be that Ryou had tested out of almost all the lower grades within the first year.

At the end of this year, he would be taking exams with the graduating class, four years early. If the thief had his way, then within the next few years, Ryou would have his Mastery in Divination, Healing, Astrology and Potions. The benefits and the access to specialized quarters that holding each Mastery would give were extremely tempting for the Spirit, who had never deigned to tell Ryou what in the world his purpose was.

Of course, Ryou didn't ask. The brown eyed teen had stopped asking questions a long time ago, and his shows of defiance to the wishes of his spirit were few and far between by now. Those were the sacrifices that he made in order to live relatively peacefully, and if the times were particularly good, without loneliness as well.

That was what the Hanged Man signified, basically: making sacrifices in order to gain knowledge, wisdom and happiness. He wouldn't lie and say he was happy, but the solace that he found in knowledge was peaceful, which made for a good substitute. He would probably never have a family again, and the day when Bakura allowed him to play games for the sake of fun and relaxation was probably far off, but he supposed that the life he led now was an improvement on the miserable years of his childhood, where he sat around dealing with one crushed hope after another. He could survive this.

The bell finally rang, and Ryou stopped shuffling his deck. He packed slowly, and after a few minutes, he was the last person to leave the room. Nobody waited for him outside the doors, and the few classmates he did pass barely noticed his presence. But that didn't hurt anymore.

_Lunch, now,_ he thought. _And only seventeen more days before I get to move on to the next meaningless chapter in life. England, here I come..._

* * *

Thunderstorms provided a unique time and opportunity for deep thinking. For some, the lightning strikes and earth-shaking sounds were absolutely terrifying. For others, like Ian Bakura, they were a very rarely found solace. He'd spent his life from age sixteen onward moving from country to country, never settling at a permanent residence except for the six peaceful years during which he met, married, and had children with Rei Akiyama; even then, however, he spent a good deal of time traveling. The trend continued even now, eight years later. And when one relied on airplanes and other vehicles for transportation, all planning was done _around_ storms, no matter how much one might wish to lay around and enjoy them while they existed.

It hurt him to realize that he could be as responsible as anyone when it came to traveling, but as a parent, he completely failed. It began with favoritism; he always chose his second-born, his daughter, over her older twin. Amane had been happy and playful and easily noticeable where Ryou was quiet and sickly and tended to fade into the background.

His next large failure was two-part; during a business trip in England, he met and dallied with Emma Granger for no reason besides that he'd thought with the wrong head. Less than a month passed before he found out that he was going to be a father, again; worse, he found out that Emma wasn't as _unattached_ as he'd thought.

The second part of this particular failure came when, in an attempt to silent assuage his own guilt, he picked up several very expensive presents for the family he'd left in Japan. A necklace for his wife, bracelets for Amane, and an archeological oddity for Ryou: the Ring.

That damned Ring.

Even before Ryou began having his black-outs and fits of violence, the truth was bound to create a fracture in the family when it came out. Ian had hoped, somehow, to keep his family together despite the mistakes that he'd made. But if Rei had been upset about little Hermione, well, she was outright angry when one of Ryou's 'fits' led to Amane being injured.

He hadn't been enough to make her stay when she left. He also wasn't enough to keep her location hidden from the _thing_ that seemed to possess his son, which forced her back. It hurt more than it should've to fake an entire death and funeral to keep the woman he loved and his oldest daughter safe from his eight year old son.

Again, a failure: he gave up on trying to raise Ryou because he just wasn't strong enough to deal with the boy's frail body and frail emotions and the fact that he seemed to be possessed. And really, it was strange to deal with Ryou without Amane. It was always "Ryou and Amane," or the reverse. They were twins. There was meant to be _two_ of them, and dealing with just a half, and not even the half he had favored for eight years, was more disconcerting than one might believe.

But Hermione... He could raise Hermione, couldn't he? And he wouldn't be doing it alone, because Dan didn't quite hate him enough to keep him out of her life and Emma harbored a little bit more than lust for him despite her marriage. It was unconventional, but it could work. And he wanted so badly to _succeed_ at being a parent, if only once. He'd failed Amane and he'd failed his son, but he couldn't _possibly_ mess up this one, right?

Or at least, it had seemed that way.

Hermione was seven years old, to the exact day, when she asked: "Daddy, who is Mr. Ryou Bakura?"

And then he had to explain to her that she had older siblings, and subsequently, that she might one day meet Amane but seeing Ryou was out of the question. Rei wouldn't even let him see Amane for more than a few hours at a time on his own, never mind with the illegitimate child that had broken their marriage along for the ride, and Ryou... If he had his way, he wouldn't let the boy anywhere close to his youngest daughter, seemingly the only one he was doing a good job with.

But Hermione was such a smart child, precocious really, with an eidetic memory to boot. She asked questions, and remembered their answers. And then she remembered the questions that he wouldn't answer. It wasn't long before she began finding answers from the silences instead of his words.

Then she came to a conclusion... "Daddy, why don't you love my big brother like you love me?"

It was a credit to his shock at the question that Ian had been unable to answer for several seconds. He had, of course, assured Hermione that he loved Ryou just as much as he loved her, because they were both his children. But arguing with Hermione was like stabbing oneself with an ice pick. Every one of his answers was just ammunition for her own side of the debate.

And she had enough points without him bungling things up on his own: "But Daddy..." _You don't know his favorite color. You don't go to his school plays. You stay here on Christmas, not with him. You don't have any pictures of him in your wallet. You don't know his friends' names. You don't give him any hugs because you're always here when you have time off from work._

Hermione even had her own closer picked out: "But Daddy, you said my big brother's birthday was September 2nd, and mine is September 19th. If you were in Cairo from the summer to the day before my birthday last month, how did you celebrate my big brother's birthday?"

_I didn't.._. And he hadn't even realized it. It had taken him that long, with help, to remember that Ryou had never called him for an 'emergency' before. And by the time he flew back to Japan, the apartment was empty. There was spoiled food in the refrigerator and a faucet that had been likely been running nonstop for the past month and a child's bedroom that was devoid of anything except furniture and some too-small clothing.

And there was a big, bloody wake-up call smeared all over the walls and floors of the bedroom that should've been his own. The blood had terrified him, and then the hieroglyphics had terrified him, and then the message left behind in the life-sustaining fluid had terrified him. It was the same words, over and over again:

_If you were here, this wouldn't be._

_Now he's not here either._

He'd never been so completely terrified in his life. It was as if all the concern he'd failed to show to his child when he had the chance piled down on his shoulders all at once... And there was nothing that he could do to assuage it. The only minimal signs that his son was even alive came at the end of every month, when the bank statements came back for the account he'd set up for Ryou. There were tuition payments for a school he'd never heard of and small, semi-regular withdrawals every two weeks.

When he was feeling hopeful, he imagined that Ryou was at some school, at the top of his classes as always, finally making friends and living the kind of life that Ian should've provided for him from the very start, no matter what problems cropped up. Most of the time, however, he thought of the darker personality hidden within his child that sometimes acted Ryou's part so well that nobody could tell something was wrong, wreaking havoc and placing the blame on others while his son remained locked within his own mind, asleep if he was even more than a vegetable at this point.

Either way, he only called once. Just to make sure that the cellphone number was still connected... Just in case. Maybe, if he was a braver man, Ian would've kept calling until someone answered and then tracked down his son for the happy kind of reunion one saw in movies, so that he could make up for the many mistakes he'd made in failing to raise Ryou.

But Ian wasn't brave, so he painted over the walls in the apartment, sold it, and returned to his traveling. He half-answered Hermione's ever-increasing questions, tried to be a good father to her, and silently admitted to himself that if it weren't for Dan and Emma, he would've failed her as well. He saw Amane when Rei allowed him to and tried not to imagine the twin that should be standing at her side. And when he got the chance, he lay around inside during thunderstorms and thought about how badly he'd succeeded in life.

_If I were there three years ago, that message wouldn't have been. And now he's gone..._

* * *

**three**

* * *

Harry was almost seven when he gave up on attempting to be good. No matter how hard he tried, he just had no interest in acting the way he saw other children act. Acting like his cousin made him feel stupid, acting like other students in his class made everyone suspiscious of him, and only acting the way that his aunt and uncle told him to act made absolutely no change on the way he was treated. It simply wasn't worth it; he couldn't even remember what went on when Vernon 'straightened him out' after each mistake, anyways.

Instead, he fully embraced his pastime of figuring out things that nobody else seemed able to see, like the shadowy figure that lived under the lamplight across from Number 4, which he could only see from the corner of his eye. He was also interested in the creatures that he could swear lived in other people's shadows, which blinked out at him on particularly sunny days but never said a word. Some people had strange looking clouds hovering over one shoulder; in his experience, these people all believed very strongly in whatever god they followed. It amused him that none of the Dursleys had this cloud, since they had taken to dragging him to church to try and make him less 'freakish.'

Privately, he believed they were disappointed when he didn't burst into flames the first time he entered a Cathedral.

It was a few months after he stopped trying to be good that he finally began to pay attention to his black-outs; the moments when Petunia or Vernon came pacing up to him, angry, and he suddenly didn't know anything until he was in his cupboard, body aching in strange places. He'd always figured that it was his aunt or uncle doing something to him, some kind of punishment, and he just wasn't supposed to be remembering anything.

That lasted until the first time he heard a voice, a whisper almost, prodding him to _just do what they say, just this once, please? I'm so tired, I can't be good for you this time, but I don't want you hurt, Harry. Please? I'm so tired, so tired..._

If he was a normal person, that would've scared him. But instead, Harry glanced at the menacing figure of his uncle in the doorway of the house, and began pulling weeds like he'd been directed to. The voice really did sound tired. And weak. So he would help it, this time, and not ask where in the world it had come from. Or why it was there.

The questions faded from his mind after a while, because the voice had seemed to be a one time thing... Except that it wasn't. It only took a few 'encounters' with the voice for him to figure out a pattern; the less he tried to be good, the more black-outs he had. The more black-outs he had, the faster the voice would begin speaking up, asking him to be good.

And as the green-eyed boy found, the longer it took to convince him to be good, the more he was able to finally talk to someone who didn't dislike him. He hadn't even realized that he wanted to talk to someone until he started to be bad on purpose, just so that he could hear the voice speak up. But when he did notice what he was doing, he didn't let up on his actions; rather, he escalated them.

By the time he was eight and a half, Harry was only a hair's breadth away from expulsion. He played games during classes because he knew the teachers would be annoyed. He did his homework but always erased all the answers because it made them pull him aside to ask questions, and he refused to answer because it made them want to pull out their hair. He made a mess of the lunch table because that made the cafeteria ladies all riled up. He poured paint over art projects because it made his classmates angry. He didn't understand _why_ people allowed themselves to be upset so easily, but he was very good at it.

He was also the closest to 'happy' that he'd ever really been, even if it was because he spent most of his time arguing with a voice that only he could hear. At first, it never seemed to say much, and Harry didn't really believe it existed, not as much as he believed he was going crazy. But the voice seemed to be all the good that Harry had given up on. Every time Harry did something bad on purpose, the voice had something to say. The worse his deeds were, the longer it seemed to hang around and talk to him. And since the voice talked about things that he would never consider (like the way other people felt about what he was doing, and consequences, and a multitude of other things that he didn't care about) he had to conclude that it was real instead of imaginary.

What bugged him the most was that no matter how bad he was, the voice always faded away eventually. Harry was determined to make it stay, so that he could _always_ have someone to talk to, besides the shadows that didn't reply to him and the various other things that only he could see. It took a bit of thinking, but he came up with the perfect answer to his problem: if the voice stayed longer the worse he acted, perhaps he simply hadn't been bad enough to make it stay _forever_?

_/Please don't do this, Harry. Won't you stop? This isn't just bad, this is _dangerous,_ and it really won't grant you any friends at all!_

The black-haired boy hummed quietly, but didn't reply. He didn't _want_ friends. He just wanted the voice to stay, and he was sure that this was the way to do it. And if it wasn't... Well, he wasn't going to think about that.

Earlier today, he had turned his teacher's hair blue. He wasn't sure how, but it had been him. In any case, she sent him to sit in her office while she called his aunt and uncle, and it was while he was there that he noticed something on her desk. It was something that gave him the best idea for being bad _ever_, because he knew that this would make _everyone_ angry, and then, the voice would _never_ stop talking to him. It was the obvious solution.

_/Harry, put those down right now! Don't!_

It was a pack of matches. And he knew _exactly_ how to use them.

"I'm never gonna be a good boy again... Not good, or normal, or nice," the green-eyed boy whispered to himself, an odd little smile on his rounded face as he stood in the chair near the desk, overlooking the huge pile of papers that he'd carefully gathered together and sprayed with air freshener from a nearby shelf. "And," if the voice stayed for good this time, "I'm _never_ gonna be stuck all alone again."

He carefully lit the matches he held, and fought back against the odd tugging sensation in his chest that usually preceded his black-outs. He was _going_ to stay awake and do this. No matter what.

_/Harry! This isn't the way to do things!_

"...Yes it is." Harry dropped the matches.

_/God damnit, Harry!_

There was a moment that passed where, for a single second, the office was quiet. But in the next, there was a short, quiet roar while the entire stack of papers lit up as if he'd dropped an entire pack of matches instead of just three. And then the fire simply _spread_, faster than any normal fire possibly could. The desk itself lit up, and the shelves, and the coat on the nearby rack, and even the napkins resting on the windowsill. _All at once_.

Harry didn't get a chance to panic. There was a very sudden pain in the center of his chest that quickly spread to every one of his limbs and even his head. Before he could take a breath to scream, everything went black.

Waking up was a strange experience, and that was _without_ the knowledge that he'd been in a burning room the last time he was awake. After years of waking up to his aunt shouting at him through the door, Harry's ears automatically tuned in to the strange conversation going on around him.

"...hours, Foran. _Three whole hours_. Magical fire or not, what kind of eight year old has the power to make a fire that _sentient_ last that _long_, and _accidentally _at that?"

There was a snort from somewhere to his right. "The Boy-Who-Lived, obviously. Potter's probably one of those little pyro-elemental kids, wouldn't surprise anyone, eh? Still, Dumbledore won't be too pleased about that. Never mind the Ministry. Thirteen obliviators, two teams from the accidental magic reversal squad, and an Unspeakable to boot. Who knows how much this whole thing cost? Never mind how many muggles the obliviators probably missed. The Minister won't be happy at all to hear that there might be muggles roaming around who still remember this weird fire."

"Eh, we'll get them eventually. We always do... Oh!" Someone had finally noticed that he was awake. "Damn. The kid woke up again and we're not even back at his relatives' house. Painkillers probably wore off; really is a right nasty burn on his back... Gonna leave a bad scar..."

"Poor sprog. Best put him back to sleep while the salve works on him. And I guess we should get the obliviators to come and take this memory out, eh?"

"Yeah, yeah..."

One of the two men uttered a strange word; _somnius? Somneo?_ He couldn't tell. Either way, Harry very suddenly found his eyes drifting closed again as lethargy took over him. The last thing he saw before falling completely asleep was yet another strange thing; an older, highly displeased looking version of himself leaning over him.

_/As if I'll let them take _this_ memory from you. The two of us have a _lot_ to talk about, little idiot._

He should've been bothered that the voice was upset with him, but in reality, he was as close to elated as he'd ever been.

_I knew it would work._

* * *

Harry didn't think that he'd ever felt so tired in his life. Considering that he spent most of his time running away from older children and completing one chore after another, this was saying quite a bit. In addition to the abnormal exhaustion seeping into his limbs, there was a strange, throbbing heat centered on his upper back and left shoulder. A slight wiggle proved the movement was a _bad_ idea, because that simple heat flared into a painful burning sensation that almost made him bite through his lip. As it was, he couldn't hold back a muffled cry of pain.

A moment later, the world around him seemed to shift on it's axis; after a few seconds and the curious realization that he was able to see wherever he was just fine without glasses, it occurred to him that the world wasn't shifting, _he_ was. In fact, the hands that had just soothed his back somehow were receding at that very moment.

"You're awake, I see," a familiar voice spoke up to the right of him.

Wondering why his head seemed so stuffed full of cotton, Harry turned his gaze from the strangely clear image of a gigantic black wooden chest looming ominously from a corner of the room. His green eyes searched for only moments before they landed on a figure that he felt he should know; the shape of those gray-green eyes seemed very familiar, as did that of the other's nose and jaw. And he didn't think anyone except him had hair so messy, even if this stranger's was longer and more of a very dark red than black. If it weren't for these differences and the fact that Harry was nowhere _near_ five feet, let alone taller, he might've guessed that he was looking in a mirror.

Oh, and not to forget; to his knowledge, mirrors didn't talk.

"You'd be surprised at that last one," the strange teen that definitely wasn't Harry spoke, folding his bare arms across a black-vested chest. "There are places where it's very common for mirrors to talk back to you." The older male tilted his head to the side, looking extremely unamused despite his own words. "But enough about that. Let's focus on different things. Like fires. And your idiocy."

Harry's eyes widened slightly as he continued to stare at who he now knew was the person behind 'the voice.' _How is it idiocy if it worked?_ He wondered. _You're here..._

"I was here _before_, you little fool! You should be lucky that either of us is here _now_ after that stunt you pulled!" Within seconds, the unamused look was taken over by pure frustration, if not anger. It was an expression Harry was intimately familiar with on a variety of faces. "You asphyxiated! Your heart stopped! You _died_ and I was barely able to save you! Was forcing me out worth your _life?_"

_Yes,_ the thought echoed out before Harry had even thought the question through. Speaking aloud for the first time, however, he replied with the opposite, "No, I guess." This was probably the only person in existence that he actively wanted to _appease_ rather than anger.

Only, his attempt at appeasement didn't work out so well.

The owner of 'the voice' stared at him blankly for a moment, gray-green eyes piercing. "...You really think it was worth your life?" One long-fingered hand began clenching and unclenching in the black fabric of his pants as he stared at the smaller boy. "You value yourself so little?"

"I said _no!_" Harry protested, frowning up at him.

All of a sudden, with a loud, frustrated sigh, the other male dropped onto the floor in a haphazard sitting position and buried his face in his hands. "You cannot lie to me, little idiot." The voice that Harry found so familiar sounded more weary in that moment than he'd ever heard it before. "Your thoughts are an open book that I find myself wishing I could close."

The green eyed boy had no idea what that meant, so he decided to ignore it in favor of staring around the room he was in. _I wonder where we are? _He thought, absently casting a glance around the room he was in.

The walls were a smokey gray color, while the ink colored floor made it seem like everything stood on top of an abyss. The gigantic chest he'd been staring at after waking up was only one of many lacquered, wooden black pieces in the room; so far as Harry could tell from his position, there was also a large chair, several short bookcases that were almost burstingly full, and the bed he was laying on, which had a wooden frame.

Amidst all the black and gray, however, the most interesting part of the room had to be the paintings on the walls. They were so bright that looking at them was almost painful, and all the colors were more vibrant than anything he'd ever seen in his life. They clashed horribly with the rest of the room, and for some reason, he found himself liking them even more for it. His favorite was a picture of a young looking redheaded woman, with brilliant green eyes. She seemed strangely familiar...

"Your mother."

For a second, Harry wondered if he'd just been insulted. "...My mother is dead. That one doesn't work."

Looking only slightly less agitated than before, the other scowled at him, and visibly restrained himself from pinching the bridge of his nose. "No. I mean the picture that you like. That's your mother. And this is your soul room."

_My mother?_ He couldn't help but glance back at the picture. And then he looked back to 'the voice.' _Maybe the voice is crazy. My mother couldn't look anything like that if she was related to Aunt Petunia. Besides, I think I would know if this was my room, seeing as I live in a cupboard..._

"My name is _Hawthorne_ and I am not _crazy!_ Why must you be so frustrating?" The voice, or Hawthorne, went back to cradling his face in his hands. "This almost makes living in the shadows seem _tolerable_," he mumbled out.

Harry felt his face go blank as he finally realized what had been going on. _...He just read my mind, didn't he?_

"You're not doing a good job of hiding your thoughts," the other grumbled. "All this and I still have to deal with explaining things to an _eight_ year old, don't I?" Hawthorne sighed. "This is exactly what I've been trying to avoid..."

* * *

**four**

* * *

"Back again I see, Mutou-kun. What will it be this time? I'm afraid that we won't be restocking on splints until Monday."

Yugi blushed hotly under the school nurse's unamused gaze, and held out his left arm for the man's inspection. The long cut he'd gotten from going over a spiked fence with a lot more speed and far less caution than recommended was a very mild injury compared to some of the wounds he'd come into the infirmary with, so he would _probably_ be able to convince Ishigami-sensei not to call his grandfather. After all, nothing was broken, and there were no other injuries... This time.

He was getting very good at escaping from bullies.

Nurse Ishigami sighed and began leading him over to a bed so that he could sit while he was being treated. "Butterfly stitches, bandages, and antiseptic this time. If you don't learn to fight back, Mutou-kun, the school will actually begin to charge you for all these supplies you're using up."

The amethyst eyed boy felt his face heat up even more, if possible. Instead of replying, he kept his face turned to the ground. _I fought back once,_ Yugi thought to himself, kicking his legs lightly. _And... I won..._ Winning that fight had been one of the worst experiences of his life.

When he first began getting bullied, his grandfather had immediately enrolled him into Judo classes, along with all the other strange little classes he'd been attending here and there since he turned eleven. Yugi was surprisingly good with the martial arts style, once his body _finally_ got the strength necessary for grapples and throws. So, although his usual tactic for dealing with bullies was to go out of his way to avoid them, the next time he somehow became cornered, the boy decided to use what he'd learned.

Even though the three teens had been twice his size, Judo turned out to be painfully effective, with emphasis on the 'pain.' He discovered very quickly that he didn't like fighting people, not at all. A real fight was nothing like the ones in the games he liked to play so very often; games didn't make the snapping of bones seem so obvious or the show the bruises so dark or make a bloodied nose so nauseating to see. The three of them never came after him again, but the weight of what he'd done stayed with him for months afterward.

Yugi preferred, now, to take the Judo classes and let his grandfather think that the bullying had stopped. Taking a beating became a lot easier after he'd finally given one himself, and found out how much worse emotional wounds were compared to the physical ones. He'd only just started to play fighting games again.

"Arigatou, Ishigami-sensei," he murmured gratefully as he slid off the bench, careful not to jar his bandaged arm too much. He gave the man a bright smile, ignored the sigh he received in return, and left the infirmary in no hurry to get to class.

_There's no point in fighting back now anyways,_ he thought. _I'm going to high school next year, and things will definitely be different! After all, Mazaki-chan will be going to the same school, and she even talks to me sometimes! So she's like my friend. And bullies don't go after people with friends, right?_ A little optimism could go a long way. _Just another month. And I'm almost finished with the puzzle, too; if I save my wish for then, I'll definitely make more friends!_

* * *

Yeesh. This came out long. Don't expect this every time, kay?

Also, Yugi will get his own time to shine eventually.


	4. Meeting Points

Been a while, huh? Ah well. There's a not-lemon, kinda-lime in this chapter, by the way. Just a heads up.

* * *

**one**

* * *

Satsu Kari was a frightening woman. It had nothing to do with her constantly narrowed eyes or the way she sometimes frowned and sent shivers down his spine, nor was it due to her preference for handing out chastisement with a wooden dough roller, far more often than necessary. The double and sometimes triple meanings behind all of her words could be overlooked, as well as the eagle's eye she had on every book, game, writing instrument, or jewelry that he had ever handled.

What scared Yugi most about her was that she scared his grandfather. Or at least... That was the source. His grandfather wasn't infallible, after all, and Yugi wasn't scared of every single thing that frightened the elderly Sugoroku. However, he'd never _hated_ anything else that scared his grandfather either.

He was afraid of his mother because she had the ability to make him hate. It just wasn't something he could ever accept in himself. So he tried to push the feelings down, somewhere deep and dark and far from his reach. It didn't work as well as he wished, because his mother made it hard to love her. If he tried to help out in the kitchen, she checked the foods as if he would poison them. When he tried to help out in cleaning around the house, she went through each room and object he came into contact with, pointing out flaws and checking to see if he had used the time cleaning to hide some strange object away. Wherever Yugi found himself, she would appear shortly afterwards. Suspiscious.

And she'd never explained why she bothered to come back again. A few days after his fourteenth birthday, he'd awakened one morning to find her lording over the kitchen and living room as if she'd always been in the house. His father was 'away on business, indefinitely' and there was no longer a guest room, because she had taken it over. And Sugoroku would be _allowed_ to keep running Kame Game Shop, but only because someone needed to keep paying the bills; apparently, he was far too old to be playing around with toys and games all the time.

He didn't even want to imagine what might've happened if she found the books, scrolls, and other supplies that his grandfather had been using to teach him for years. Luckily, Sugoroku was insanely paranoid when it came to anything 'magic' related, and they were always hidden away before dinner was put on the table at the end of the day. Now, two months since the day she had reappeared in his life, Yugi hadn't seen the inside of that hidden room once.

It was a wonder that she allowed him to keep the golden puzzle he'd been trying to complete for years. If anything was going to set off his mother, it would be the strange artifact with unknown abilities that Yugi planned to make a wish on, right? Apparently not. In his mother's mind, a puzzle that nobody could ever complete was just as harmless as the games her son constantly played and the arcade he'd only begun to frequent once she started calling their grandfather's house home.

_Maybe she knows something I don't,_ Yugi thought, gazing upon the completed golden puzzle that sat on the pillow by his head. _Maybe she knew that nothing would happen if I managed to complete it... _Or at least, it seemed as if nothing had happened. A smile lit his face; he'd wished for friends the very first moment that he could, and real friends just couldn't be rushed. He didn't mind waiting if it meant he wouldn't be lonely again after that.

The amethyst-eyed boy let his mind drift to Jounouchi and Honda, the two former bullies that had decided for some reason to become his protectors instead. _Do they count as friends?_ Yugi wanted to believe so, but some niggling doubt or lingering fear of them stopped him from embracing them as much as he probably should. How many times had he ended up in the nurse's office because Jou had spotted him in the yard during lunch and decided to come torment him? How many different meals had he missed because Honda came by and decided that he didn't need any of the money in his pockets?

"But people can change, right?" He asked aloud, softly, as he gazed at the puzzle. "If I can become a stronger person and gain friends, then they can become kind people, I think." Yugi nodded firmly to himself, then closed his eyes, finally beginning to give in to the call of sleep. "And even if they can't, you'll always understand me..."

He'd never gotten out of the habit of talking to the puzzle as if it were a real person, but as he drifted off, he could swear that this was the first time he'd ever imagined the puzzle with a body. A body that looked just like his...

* * *

_This isn't the first time he's spoken to me._

The realization came on slowly but surely, as he drifted in the not-abyss that had taken over the former darkness of his world recently. He wasn't as surprised by the thought as he could be, not really. It seemed to him that the only things he truly _knew_ were those that came from the other. The warm one. The breathing one. The one that didn't have the demonic crimson eyes.

He still didn't know why his eyes were in the likeness of blood when the others' passed for jewels. But maybe that knowledge would come later? Only time could tell.

Until then, he would remain floating until he was needed, trying to grasp at whispering thoughts and unclear messages to try and find out the purpose of his existence. It couldn't only be as the companion to the other, correct? Eight years solving that puzzle was quite a bit of time to wait, if companionship was supposed to be the end result...

_"I wish I could have true friends!"_

Or at least companionship from the being that used to reside within the puzzle. He wasn't sure the other would like that. The other tried so hard to smile, but could he upturn his lips for the nameless one that clung like a parasite to the fringes of his mind?

_Maybe, maybe not,_ he thought, ruby colored eyes closing in imitation of the pair across from his. _But the other says I would make a good friend. That I will always understand. Is that true...?_

He sighed. He drifted. He waited. And still...

Nothing made sense at all.

* * *

**two**

* * *

Malik had once been told that he would "catch more flies with honey than vinegar." He wasn't sure who exactly had said it; Ishizu didn't speak to him very much if she could help it, since she was never quite sure which of his personalities would be in control. His brother Rishid seemed like the type to impart such wisdom, if only in the vague hopes that it would somehow diffuse into the less benevolent side of his personality, but he couldn't think of a reason for it to be said. Maybe he'd read it in one of the hundred or so fortune cookies he'd consumed after his first visit to an authentic Dim Sum place...

On second thought, it was probably Rishid after all. He couldn't remember much of anything from that day after the sugar rush he'd gotten and crashed from, let alone fortunes, so his older brother was the most likely source of the wisdom. It was certainly proving to be effective in practice, but somehow, he didn't imagine Rishid had meant his advice to be taken in such a way.

His goal wasn't one that he could reach all on his lonesome. And while Rishid was guaranteed to assist him, no matter how against the still unexplained plan of his sibling he was, two people was still too small a group to achieve anything to the extent that Malik needed in order to fix all the problems in his life. What he needed was contacts. More people with more connections and more abilities that Malik could use to push things along.

The problem arose in his being a fifteen year old boy with nothing to offer besides obscure knowledge and old magics that most people didn't believe in anymore. Nobody would help him because nobody believed that he was worth helping. Once, he'd believed that he was making headway on the issue when Marik was loosed from his bonds and allowed to terrify a few people into agreeing to help, but those plans had fallen through easily. Loyalty created by fear were broken too easily, so obviously it wasn't what he needed.

He'd searched and searched, until one day, he realized that the answer had lain beneath his nose the entire time. Where fear would not suffice, _love_ could conquer all. Love made Rishid follow him instead of slitting his throat in the night. Love made Ishizu push past her fear of him to teach him about the world, money, and languages when he asked for the help. Love made ordinary people do the most insane of things, all for those he cared for.

And while he wasn't sure he could inspire true love, not the pure kind he saw more and more often as he continued through life, lust was very close. In fact, many people seemed to mistake lust for love in their every day relationships. In this instance, where fear and threats were the 'vinegar,' something much easier to access became the 'honey' that Malik needed to get closer to his goals.

His body.

Until very recently, it had never occurred to him that he might be considered attractive. He'd seen very few people in his life, and among them, his blonde hair and violet eyes weren't _beautiful_. They were normal. In his former, simplistic views, everybody looked different and that was the end of that. Rishid had brown hair and eyes, Ishizu had blue eyes and black locks, and he was the lightly colored one. Rishid was broad shoulders, Ishizu was curvy, and he was small and skinny. More differences were abound, and they were all perfectly normal.

On in the world, however, it wasn't so. Here, he was _exotic_. Here, he was _petite_. Here, he was _desirable_... And this was what he played on. Because it didn't seem to matter, among the people of the world outside, whether he was the same gender as they were or not. And if he wasn't mistaken, his young age and the taboo aspect it gave him only seemed to put him in higher demand.

So he worked it.

"Tell me, Fariq," he breathed out into a dark-skinned man's ear, "what are you thinking of right now?" Huge, heated hands gripped at either side of his bony hips as he lazily draped himself over the form that was nearly twice his size. His eyes remained closed as he ran his hands through the medium-length black hair of his oblivious prey. "Are you _content_?" He purred, rolling the word off his tongue in a way that had taken him a week to perfect and rolling his hips slowly as well.

Fariq swallowed thickly and his hips bucked up in response to both the movement and the voice in his hear. "Indeed I am," his deep voice vibrating pleasantly against Malik's chest. "I was unsure..." He trailed off, hissing in pleasure as the boy began pressing a trail of kisses down his neck. It took a lot of effort not to grip the tiny figure closer against his chest.

"Unsure?" Now, Malik smiled against the man's skin. "I must not be doing a very good job convincing you." He ran his hands slowly down Fariq's bare back until they were trapped between flesh and the hard wood of the chair. He slowly increased the gyrating motions of his hips, and smirked at the rumbling groan from his prey. "I can't imagine any better _incentive_ for your assistance in such a lucrative venture, _Fariq_." Again with the purring. It worked very well, he'd noticed.

"I'm, ah, in agreement with that." Fariq ground their hips together with more force, feeling the softness of the exotically colored boy's thighs pressing into his denim clad legs. He was at a point where he'd do almost anything to remove the barrier of clothing between them and finally reach the ambrosia he'd been fantasizing of for days. "I believe... I believe I will take you up on your offer," he managed to get out breathlessly.

_Victory._

Malik paused in his motions and listened to the half-whine, half-growl type sound from the man he was perched upon. He pressed their chests together more fully, and unseen, rested his hand upon the golden rod that had become his constant companion in the past years. "Would you _swear_ to that, Fariq Abdul-Karim? To keep my secrets, follow my each and every command, and give me your never ending loyalty? Would you risk your body and blood for that? Would you risk your _soul_?" He pressed them tighter together still.

In the right voice, at the right time, those words sounded like an erotic promise rather than the death sentence they truly were.

"I swear, little one," he panted out, clenching his eyes shut and completely. "Body, blood, soul... _Yours_. Anything can be yours. Anything is yours for this price!" His hips bucked again, and he felt lightheaded enough that he saw a blinding golden light as the gyrating began again, faster than ever which each friction-filled slide against each other. "Y-yes! I swear!"

Malik smirked as the brilliant golden glow from the rod in his hands finally faded. _You should've known better than to deal with the devil, Fariq Abdul-Karim. Because now, you are mine._ Some distant part of him, perhaps from a time when he'd admired his father and loved the isolated world he formerly resided in, felt sadness for the life that had just been given up. But mostly, he felt victorious.

Fariq was a major piece when it came to building up his Rare Hunters, in both contacts and skills. And they had just become _Malik's_ contacts and skills. It was perhaps unfair to damn someone to something very similar to what he was trying so hard to escape, but his selfishness tended to win out on the issue. He wanted that final release far more than he wanted to care about the happiness health of the people around him. There was never any question of going against this.

With another, more concentrated glow from the millennium rod, Fariq went slack, and then tensed up with complete and utter ecstasy. Malik slid back and stepped away, watching disinterestedly as a stain began seeping into the front of the man's pants. It was vaguely interesting to watch, knowing that he'd caused it mostly without the aid of the rod, but he had no desire to partake in pleasures of the flesh. They didn't call to him at all.

He left the man there, lost in his magic-induced fantasies, then gathered the jacket he'd left on a chair and exited the hotel room without any further ado. Rishid was waiting for him, after all.

* * *

**three-X-four**

* * *

It took quite a bit of time to put things together and work out all the kinks, but at long last, Hermione had a plan. It relied heavily on all her parents being both present at home and occupied, as well as her admittedly shaky acting skills and the reputation she had as a good, responsible little girl. It was also dependent on how much of her allowance she'd managed to save up in the last few months, and however much pocket money her parents would be willing to give to her.

Still, the ten year old had spent literal days just thinking out solutions to every plausible issue she could think of, from transportation, to weather, to her own calculations simply being incorrect, no matter how unlikely the last option was; she had an IQ of 163, after all. There weren't many approaches to a situation that she couldn't find when she sat down and focused. Considering that this plan was the answer to a problem she'd been struggling with for three years, she was certain that she'd seen every side to it that was possible.

She commenced her plan on Saturday, June 26th.

It began at the breakfast table; her mother was serving out food while her father was having one of his less-than-amicable staring contests with her daddy, who was too tired to even notice since he'd only arrived home a few hours ago. She brought up the subject casually: "Mum, could I go to the library today? I'm sure daddy wants to rest after his flight, and I would hate to wait until Monday to pick up my books. I would also like to look at some materials for my precalculus class next year."

As she'd predicted, there was barely any protest, especially since Hermione had conveniently left out the fact that she meant to go to the main library, an hour away in London, rather than the Crawley branch that was right next to the school she was attending. She felt guilty for lying, but only a little bit. It wasn't as if she was really doing anything _wrong_, after all. And she hadn't really _lied_, so it was okay.

_It's definitely worth it, _she told herself resolutely.

She had to be a bit more careful with the second part of her plan: her daddy kept a folder of important papers and notes he made to himself, and he carried it everywhere he went, so it was usually in his backpack. Hermione rushed to finish her breakfast, and while she was sure that all her parents were still downstairs, she crept into her daddy's room and went digging through the folder for the papers she wanted. There were only four; a bank statement, a bill, and two birth certificate copies. She was fairly sure that they were all she would need.

Her heart was racing with anticipation as she carefully rearranged everything so that it looked untouched, before darting into her own room. The papers went into a folder of her own, decorated with purple unicorns, and that folder went into her backpack. The next thing she did was double check her supplies; her money was secure, her school I.D. card was tucked into the wallet, she had a spare jacket and an umbrella in case of sudden weather changes, and she'd packed a small lunch for herself. After a few moments of staring at the pack thoughtfully, she ran to grab a small notebook and a few writing utensils.

Then she said goodbye to her parents as calmly as she could, and tried to keep the guilty look off her face when she walked straight past her school and the Crawley Library Branch, in the direction of the bus station. She was going to London and she absolutely _refused_ to mess things up.

* * *

For Harry, his ninth year of life had heralded many changes, which all ranged from the one event that he (_secretly, in the farthest depths of his mind, where Hawthorne would never be able to catch onto the thoughts_) considered the best thing he'd done in his life: not-really-accidentally almost-killing himself by trying to burn down his teacher's office.

The first and most obvious change was Hawthorne's presence. The green eyed boy still wasn't quite sure what his spectre-like companion was; supposedly, he was some kind of friend and guardian that came out of the shadows because Harry wished for him. There was more to the explanation, but it wasn't anything he quite understood, so he stuck with the 'friend and guardian' part. Harry didn't know what kind of guardians lived in the back of your mind and had the ability to take over your body, but he supposed that he couldn't complain anyways. It _was_ what he'd wanted, after all.

Of course, having Hawthorne around meant that he had reluctantly promised to act like a model student as much as possible from then on. Luckily, his sudden turn around left teachers and classmates alike completely wary of him, and the better he did, the more they backed away.

The second change was two-part: he now knew about the existence of wizards, and as a consquence, the Dursleys were terrified of him. Apparently his 'not-accident' had been big enough to have more than a few of them lingering around Little Whinging for quite some time afterward. Even though he should've had his memory erased more than a few times at this point, something about Hawthorne's presence made the spell useless on him. And his aunt and uncle had retained their memories, and now knew that somewhere inside of him, the ability to burn down an entire school spontaneously was hidden.

It meant that he was left alone virtually all the time, and he'd been given his own room in the hopes that he wouldn't try to burn down the house because he disliked the cupboard. They left him to eat on his own, whenever they weren't in the kitchen, and he was never bothered about chores again. It gave him a lot of room and a lot of free time to do things he would never have been allowed to do otherwise, much to Hawthorne's dismay.

One such thing was randomly making his way to London, because there was supposedly a Wizarding Center there.

_/This cannot possibly be a good idea..._ Honestly, the last thing Hawthorne wanted was for his danger-prone charge to get his hands on anything magical, especially without any supervision. He'd never met anyone, let alone a nine year old, that attracted as much trouble as Harry did so effortlessly; considering how long he'd been 'alive,' that was saying quite a bit.

Harry glanced to his side, where the spectre was standing. He still felt inordinately pleased every time he caught sight of Hawthorne's transluscent figure next to him. He hadn't even realized how lonely he was until, suddenly, he had somebody he could talk to about anything and everything, no matter the time of day or night. And even though it was rare that he followed Hawthorne's instructions, he really _did_ appreciate the spirit's presence.

"It's a great idea," the boy replied quietly, nudging up his glasses on his nose. "I can finally see something other than Surrey and expand my horizons. I'm going to be finding out more about my roots. Maybe I'll even make a friend, finally, so you can stop worrying about that too." He didn't have to look to know that Hawthorne was wearing a skeptical expression. It was a normal occurrence whenever Harry tried to justify doing things that he really ought not be doing.

_/Right. Expanding horizons, finding out about your roots, and making friends? I'll admit to the first point, but you don't even know where in London you're going. I'm not even going to try and imagine your attempts at making friends._

His words should probably have stung, but privately, Harry agreed with him... But _only_ privately. "I'll know where I'm going when I get there," he protested as the bus went over a bumpy patch of road. "And I can make friends just fine." _Keeping_ friends was an entirely different matter, of course. But then, he'd never had much incentive for that before.

_/Which means that you have no destination at all, not really. And the day you make and _keep_ a friend for more than a few minutes is the day I willingly show you how to curse in Arabic._ He was a bit guilty, when it came to the latter. Harry was frustrating to deal with once he'd gotten an idea in his head and Hawthorne had a mouth that was better suited for adult company.

Ironically, it was only a few moments later when Hawthorne looked at his charge's face and realized that he'd given the boy an idea. _/...Damn it._

"I consider that a promise," Harry spoke. Then, without further adieu, he stood up and walked to the back of the bus he was on, where a girl had gotten on just a few stops before. She had large hazel eyes and wild brown hair, along with the countenance of a frightened rabbit. Her eyes only grew larger when Harry climbed into the seat next to her. "Hello, my name is Harry. This is my first time going to London all on my own. I noticed that you were all alone, and you look a bit nervous too, so I thought I could come over. Is it your first time going to London as well?"

Hermione beamed at the scruffy looking boy sitting next to her, and offered him her hand. "It is! My name is Hermione. I really am nervous, because I've never traveled on my own before, and, well," she broke off, blushing, before offering hesitantly, "I didn't tell my parents where I was going and I'm a bit afraid that I'll get in trouble for it when I go back home."

_/...I don't believe this._

_Hah! Well you should've! _Harry shook her hand and grinned back. "I didn't say anything when I left either, but I don't think my aunt and uncle noticed. It'll be fine anyways. So why are you going to London?"

The bushy haired girl hesitated, wondering if she should tell, and then decided that it wouldn't hurt. Maybe he could help? "Well..."

* * *

Sometimes, Ryou wondered why he even kept his cellphone. It was old, and clunky, and he rarely even used it unless he was ordering food on a lazy evening or bored enough to mash random numbers and see if they actually connected to someone. The contacts in it were important, but he'd written those numbers down ages ago. Although... He supposed that some stupid, childish part of him was still waiting for his father to call. He didn't know why. His father had only called once, and he'd hung up before Ryou could even answer. It had probably been an accidental call.

_/This is the perfect opportunity to go purchase a new one. Preferably one that would actually fit in your pocket. With a new number./_

Three years, and Bakura was still pushing for him to disappear completely. The spirit just couldn't understand why Ryou still let the bank statements go to his father, especially since they inevitably showed exactly how and where each bit of money was spent, whether it be on plane tickets or hotel rooms. He'd been in a foul mood when Ryou paid for the hotel rooms with his credit card, mostly because it was England, and that meant that Ian Bakura finally could find them if he wanted to, just by looking at the papers.

_/It's not as if anyone ever calls you, yadonushi./_

Almost as if it were spiting the spirit, a shrill ringing noise suddenly broke the silence of the hotel room. Ryou panicked, briefly, until he realized exactly what was ringing. "H-hello?" He stuttered out after finally finding and answering the phone.

_"You picked up! It worked! Oh, I'm so happy!"_ The voice on the other end of the line, a young female, sounded vaguely familiar. _"I can't believe this! Oh, I'm rambling aren't I? Hello! You're at the Comfort Inn, right? Near Charing Cross Road?"_

"Excuse me? How do you know that? Who am I speaking to?" The white haired teen was confused and more than a little bit bothered. _Do I have a stalker? I can't have a stalker, right? Who would want to stalk me? There's no point to that!_

_"Oh, um, well, I can't tell you that. But can you please come down anyways? Um, to the... Um... Oh be quiet, you! What else am I supposed to say to him? I bet you couldn't do better!" _The last part seemed to be directed to someone else. Then there was a series of strange sounds, before the voice on the other end of the line changed to that of a young male. _"You're a good person, right? I'm sure you wouldn't leave a small ten year old girl by herself in London. All you need to do is come to the diner across the street from your hotel, and we can resolve this peacefully. I'm not sure my patience will hold out very long, so... You have three minutes."_

And then the line hung up.

Ryou stared at the phone for a moment, bewildered and somewhat panicked. What in the world was that about? Who could possibly be wanting to meet him? Who was the little girl on the line? Was she really being threatened?

_/Yadonushi, don't you dare go down there! It's none of our business and we have other things to do today! I _need_ to get into that library!/_

"There's a little girl that might be in some kind of trouble Bakura, I can't just pretend that nothing is happening." Really, he didn't even have a choice, when he thought of it that way. He couldn't just leave her there. "It is my business, they called me, and the library will still be there on Monday! A life is more important than some books you've been waiting to scour."

_/Damnit!/_ As the spirit broke off into low, dangerous mutters and Ryou exited the hotel at a fast-paced walk, he knew that his decision to go against Bakura was going to come back to bite him in the ass. If there was one thing the thief absolutely couldn't stand from him, it was outright disobedience. He would be in pain sometime in the near future. He was just hoping that whatever he was walking into wouldn't be painful in itself.

As it turned out, it wasn't pain he was in for. He knew that the moment he walked into the diner and caught sight of the girl standing near a table in the back. For a second, his heart almost stopped; but then he realized that the person he was looking at was far too young and had far too English features to be Amane. But her wild brown hair was familiar, even though it curled, and she had the same set of eyes he saw in the mirror every day.

Even the way she ran at him, screaming happily, was painfully familiar.

"It's you! It's you, it's you, it's you! I can't believe it! I've wanted to meet you for so long! Big brother!" Tackling strangers for hugs simply wasn't something she did, but Hermione had never been so excited before in her life. "You look just like I always imagined you would!" And then, she was crying, for no reason that she could figure out. "I've always wanted a big brother!"

_I... _Ryou was overwhelmed.

* * *

It took some pursuasion, but Harry was finally coerced into staying after Hermione calmed down and introduced him to her completely bewildered older brother who she'd apparently never met before in her life. It felt strange to be sitting at the table and eating even as the brown haired girl that he'd only met half an hour ago began spilling out details of her life and asking questions about the other boy that he really shouldn't have been privy to. Still, he wasn't going to turn down free food, and he was admittedly very curious about the white-haired teen.

Or rather, he was curious about the shadowy being hovering over the teen's left shoulder and looking somewhere between put-out and disbelieving at everything going on. It was talking, as well, but the words sounded like quiet murmurs to his ears. Harry was fairly sure that the boy, Ryou, knew about it being there, but Hermione couldn't see it, and neither could Hawthorne when he asked. Of course, Hawthorne could never see most of the things that Harry saw. Nobody ever did, but he was used to that.

"...and Daddy is just a scaredy cat, because he keeps a picture of you and these birth certificates and all these bills and statements and when it rains outside he just sits there looking sad and I think it might make him happy if you would come to see him but I would hate to push you when I just found you and I'm a bit angry because I had to do all this just to meet you when he could find you on his own and I met Amane but I don't think she likes me because we have different mothers which made me sad and you're going to be my big brother and not disappear again and leave me all alone, right?" It seemed that Hermione could ramble with the best of them, especially when she was excited.

Harry couldn't help but sidle closer to the girl when the shadowy figure reared up and almost hissed at her, looking angry. Immediately after he did that, though, it focused on him with a piercing gaze. _I guess it figured out that I could see it,_ he thought.

"I'm a very busy person, Hermione. I've finished my schooling, but there are still many things I need to do on my own," Ryou spoke quietly. He had proven to be a very gentle, soft-spoken person, and he tended to look at Hermione like he couldn't believe she existed, or as if she was the first light he'd seen after several months in the darkness. "And I don't believe your parents would be very happy about you associating with me." Something about his tone made it seem like he wasn't far off from crying, even though his expression was placid.

Hermione seemed like she really _would_ cry at his gentle denials. For the first time since his brief introduction, Harry spoke up, "It's not like you have to move in with her. Can't you just send her letters or email? And you have a phone; she could call you. I mean, she's spent the last three years trying to find out about you and meet you. That counts for something, right? You seem like you'd be a good big brother."

Ryou wanted to deny her, but looking at the little girl across from him, he already knew resistance was futile. _I want a family so badly..._ He'd never even dreamed that he might one day meet his little sister, and certainly not that she would actually seek him out. It was insane to think that all this time, there had been someone out there who actually _wanted_ him. He shot a glance to his side, a pleading look on his face. This wasn't something he could go against Bakura on, but if he would just acquiese...

The spirit growled slightly, but he'd known from the moment the girl introduced herself that he wouldn't be getting his way at the end of things. _/Whatever. Do what you want./_ If nothing else, the girl was obviously extremely intelligent, possibly moreso than her older brother. It was always good to have intelligent contacts.

The sudden smile on Ryou's face was almost blinding. "I've always wanted to be an older brother."

Hermione smiled brightly as well.

Harry noticed that another hugging moment was probably about to start, and decided that he'd put off his exploring to help Hermione for long enough. "Well, that's awesome. You can trade emails and phone numbers, have fun, all that good stuff; I'm gonna go now." He stood quickly, hoping to get a move on before the other child could latch onto his arm and keep him there again.

Ryou nodded. "Of course..." His words trailed off as Hermione all but lunged at Harry for a hug, the sudden motion making the boy's fringe fly upward. "Harry _Potter_?" He asked, suddenly wide eyed.

_/Her brother's a _wizard_? You just happened to run into a _wizard_? I don't fucking believe this!_ Hawthorne exclaimed from the back of his mind.

Harry blinked, shifted Hermione away, and then grinned at the boy. "So you're a wizard? Then you can show me to where I want to go!"

Hermione was confused. "Wait, what? Wizards?"

_...Oh dear._

* * *

**A/N:** Is this the part where you acknowledge how AU this is going to be? Because seriously, I have no idea what actually happens in the Yu-Gi-Oh! series besides the most major events. And even those are vague...

And. Um. Is a T rating still acceptable? I _think_ it is...


End file.
